“Four,” he proudly declares, “with more to come, I hope.”
“Good, then.” The woman smiles.
What’s good? He is baffled by the rather presumptuous request for him to babysit this problematic child — perhaps to tempt him to make a film that will alleviate the indignity. But he smiles kindly, helps the attractive woman find a suitable place for the carriage, and takes charge of the pacifier, making it clear that he will seek help at the first signs of yowling.
“Thank you, Yair.” Suddenly they are on a first-name basis. She hurries back to the singing, he closes the door after her. Before checking on the uninvited guest, he gulps several small cups of hot coffee. Now, wide awake, he takes a close look at the baby whose name nobody has bothered to tell him.
The baby is awake and gives the director a quiet, knowing look. Is the blue-black color of his eyes a joint venture of America and Israel or something temporary, likely to change? Moses considers whether to stick in the pacifier right away to head off a scream, or wait for one patiently so he can put a quick end to babysitting and restore the child to his grandmother, who didn’t leave him milk. He offers the baby the pacifier, and the little one hesitates before accepting it as consolation for the breast that had gone all the way to America. But even as he sucks at it avidly, he maintains a curious gaze at the unfamiliar old man who might make him a character in his next film.
Moses knows from experience that the pacifier will not prevent a round of wailing, nor will smiling or making funny faces. He leans over and picks up the baby in his arms, amazed how light he is.
He takes him to the window, to the vista of the gleaming desert in the noonday sun, carefully holding the child’s head lest it fall back, though he seems already able to hold it up on his own. The baby is quiet. Moses points at the blue skies stretched over the desert, and the pacifier falls out as the child gapes with wonder. A new, urgent idea crosses the director’s mind, and he replaces the baby in his carriage.
The baby, disappointed, produces a slight wail of protest, a clear enough sign for Moses, who will not do battle with any child. He picks him up again and carries him through the kitchen, its air thick with the smell of leftovers, to the front yard, looking for the young father, who is indeed there, a boy among boys, excitedly chasing a ball, and Moses suddenly laments the lost childhood of this lad trapped by love, and he retreats to the house with the baby in his arms and sternly scans the group of singers, and as he searches for the young grandmother, she hurries toward him, takes her grandson, and says, disappointed: “What happened? So fast?”
“Nothing I could do; you didn’t leave any milk, and besides, I have to be going, because I’m paying another visit on the way back.”
IT’S STILL EARLY afternoon, and Moses asks Amsalem, who escorts him to his car, if he remembers the location of the wadi where Slumbering Soldiers was filmed. Amsalem remembers, for it was he who supplied fresh food during the shoot. “It’s no more than forty-five kilometers from here, and the road has surely been improved.”
“It’s been more than forty years,” says Moses, “so find me the place on the map. When I saw the film in Spain I got all nostalgic for the Nabataean ruin we turned into a secret installation.”
“Let’s hope it hasn’t been razed.”
Moses takes out an old map from the trunk and follows Amsalem’s thick finger as it moves from the Ohalim junction by the Ohalei Kedar prison, to the Nokdim junction by Ramat Hovav, to the forest of Nahal Secher, to the Negev junction, then heads left from there to the old oil pipeline road that passes at the foot of Hyena Hill to the vicinity of Yeruham and then straight to the Big Crater, where it plunges down to Wadi Matmor. “This is where we made that crazy movie,” says Amsalem.
“Matmor?”
“Or maybe it was Hatira. When you get there you’ll remember, or just ask any Bedouin. If I didn’t have guests, I would gladly drive you, but since you’re already in Beersheba, why not go there? The roads are empty on Shabbat and the police don’t go there, you can speed down and back in an hour.”
Given such encouragement, Moses heads south and not north. He drives the route of Amsalem’s finger and finds that the late-afternoon road is indeed empty, taking a holy Sabbath nap. Here and there, an old pickup truck emerges from a distant Bedouin encampment. Sometimes Bedouins cross the road, raising a hand in greeting or just wanting to hitch a ride.
Yellow dominates the desert scenery, dotted here and there by reddish bushes and green shoots, encouraged by infrequent rain. The mountains in the distance look like a giant accordion, their foothills arranged like loaves of dough awaiting a blazing oven. The view is joined by the whistle of a new wind, which thickens the haze and fans the road with a fine coating of sand.
At the Negev junction he is uncertain about the turn onto the oil road; he slows down and looks for a human being who can assure him he is not lost. A small group of Bedouins, men standing and women sitting, are gathered by the shell of an old bus stop. He pauses for them to confirm the route, which they do, and they also take an interest in his destination. Wadi Matmor or Wadi Hatira in the Big Crater. Does any of them know the place? And if so, does anyone know if the old Nabataean ruin is still there? They pass the question back and forth, and finally a dark skinny man pushes his way to the car window and swears he knows the wadi and the ruin and is able to guide the driver there. But why?
“Just to see it.”
“And to stay?”
“No, just to look.”
In that case, the Bedouin offers his services as tour guide, but for a fee, since it is a long way. “Long?” Moses is apprehensive. “How long?” He waves the map. “Long,” insists the Bedouin. Long for him, for he lives not far from here. “A hundred shekels,” offers Moses. “A hundred each way,” counters the Bedouin, “you also have to come back.” Moses closes the window and shifts into drive. “Let’s go, a hundred shekels, final price.” The Bedouin knocks on the window. “Okay, a hundred and thirty, final price.”
Does he really know the place, or is he just pretending? It’s too late, though; the Bedouin hops into the front seat and signals to three veiled women, dressed all in black, to get into the back seat. “Only one,” shouts Moses, lifting one finger, regretting the whole business, “only one!” The Bedouin starts to bargain. “Two, only two.” “No.” Moses holds firm. “Not two, only one. We are coming back. The others can wait for you here. One woman, or none at all.”
The Bedouin considers this and finally gestures to one woman, the smallest, who like a quivering bird squeezes into the back seat with her bundle, only her eyes visible, sparkling in the rearview mirror.
Meanwhile, the day has darkened, with a big cloud drifting from the north and devouring the sun. According to Moses’ calculation there are only twenty kilometers to go, and though it’s early winter, and the days are shorter, there’ll be enough light for the round trip.
They drive along the old pipeline road, filling up the gas tank on the outskirts of Yeruham, and silence reigns in the car, but the eyes of the Bedouin woman scorch the nape of the driver’s neck. The Bedouin man indeed knows the way, and as soon as they begin their descent into the Big Crater and turn onto a dirt road, Moses recognizes a few bits of the route traveled by the officer in the open jeep on his way to impose law and order on the sleeping army unit. Dusk falls more quickly than he expected, and when they arrive at the spot where the Nabataean structure ought to be standing, darkness prevails throughout the Big Crater, except for beams of light that reach out to them from a watchtower near a double roadblock. Three reserve soldiers, who in their uniforms look like extras from his old film, except they are alert and tough and armed. They stop the car and order its three occupants to get out and stand in a line.